Note: Evanora/Glinda from the film, but details about Oz are more in line with book-canon (specifically the green glasses everyone had to wear in the ECity)... though with some obvious concessions made to keep things tidy.
When they would run laughing through the halls of the palace...
everything was green and Evanora cursed the glasses locked to her face
spinning the world mad with colours
that did not fit, were never quite right,
that made her feel giddy with want
for the Real
... Glinda would spin on her heels and proclaim herself Ozma - Princess Divine.
It was all too easy to fall at her feet, to kiss that soft, white hand (tinged green with forget and ache), to play the dark knight to her light princess in the faerie tales of old.
And she always did.
When they were fifteen, girls still but women also and men were vying to be the knight in Glinda's games, she was slapped for her penance.
And everything was red and Evanora cursed the
blackness that clung to her heels
that made her feel as though the green
of the city had seeped into her skin,
becoming her blood.
But oh! When they were young.
When they were young on the banks of a river, with Glinda's brightness everywhere, unfettered, revealed under the bright golden rays of the sun. And beside her, ever beside her, ever adoring, ever near, Evanora's contrasts - her blackness to Glinda's brightness, her porcelain to Glinda's gold.
Always in contrast. Always yearning for the light in her companion to brighten up her own, translucent skin; to plump up her sharp angles; to lighten her darkness.
She was a creature starved and thirsty - always thirsty.
She thought she would go mad with thirst.
She began eating only the palest pink fruits. Pinks to match the hue and shade of Glinda's lips - pinks and calm reds to stave off the thirst that kept her lips dry, cracked, bleeding with want.
How she bled in those days,
bled from her hands that worked tirelessly to bring the rarest flower
bled from her feet that paced the halls endlessly
bled from her cheeks as she sobbed in the night
the water coursing down her face searing and burning,
the blisters cracking and bleeding,
only to be assuaged with the gentle carress of Her in the morning light
healing, always healing
wounding, always wounded.
When they would run laughing through the palace - children, always children, even in heels with pearls draped from their shoulders and full dance cards - and Glinda would wait until the right moment to be caught; there, right behind that curtain or that door, and Evanora's arm would wrap around her waist so easily and they would laugh into each other's necks and pause to catch their breath. Only every moment grew longer, every capture came more easily,
And then they were kissing, laughing, in the halls of the castle.
Glinda's soft flesh so warm beneath her touch.
She only grew more thirsty, more hungry; she ran faster, chased harder.
Sometimes, when her darkness came out to play
and she thrust that golden girl against a door
before any worry began to take root
those bright eyes would darken and pull her roughly
and there was pleasure in the pain
and she bled more and
more.
For each drop of blood and each
tear she received a sweet kiss and it was all
worth it. Watching
the desire grow
as her darkness threatened to take them both and
never let go.
It was never enough, she always wanted more, needed more. Her thirst was never quenched. Her hunger never sated. Once knowing those soft, rosy limbs she only wanted them more and more.
Wanted the softness to smooth out her hardness.
She begged for release, but only grew sharper.
And the green took root in her veins until it shot out of her fingertips.
While those golden eyes danced with delight at the darkness rising forth.